


Everything You Could

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: your voice inside my head [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fires, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Offscreen character death, Panic Attacks, Sacrifice, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-02-01 02:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12694926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: "You can't save everyone," she says, "you did everything you could."He feels like it wasn't enough.





	Everything You Could

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebeholder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/gifts).



> I think I wrote this sometime in May or maybe June. I just discovered it again while exploring my Google drive. For bluebeholder, who at some point or another asked for a fic where a telepath helped someone in a way no one else could.

Queenie wakes up cold. It isn’t a frigid cold, more a general knowledge that a source of warmth has gone missing, rather than a bone deep chill. Blearily, she pushes her hair out of her face and glances around the room.  It’s dark still but the sun is just creeping over the horizon. With the mists hanging low and heavy over the sitka spruce trees, the dawn is dim and grey, almost lavender in colour. It’s eerie, and breathtaking.    


Shivering, she checks over her shoulder, finding the other half of the bed empty but disturbed. When she presses her hand to the soft white sheets, she finds them still warm. A frown draws at her delicate golden brows and she purses her lips. She reaches out, searching the cabin for her wayward bedmate, listening intently for the distinctive static hiss of his occlumency shield. But Queenie doesn’t find it, instead she reaches whispered half thoughts, fragments of images and voices. Someone’s - _Theseus Scamander’s_ \-  bark of a laugh becomes a father’s frantic scream for help. Fireworks melt into the spark of an inferno, the shouts of terrified children merging with his Aurors’ cheers in some horrible crescendo. The thoughts come and go, barely coalescing before they dissipate like spectres in the night. It steals Queenie’s breath away. 

The floorboards are cool under her feet, smooth and without the creak she associates with the ones at home. Queenie creeps through the stillness of the house, following the trail of thoughts flowing through her head until she finds him. He’s on the back porch, sitting on the steps and staring out into the forest beyond. There’s a nip in the air, but he doesn’t seem to feel it, dressed only in his slacks and shirt sleeves, top two buttons undone. 

The porch door creaks a little but Percival doesn’t stir, too caught up in his memories, in the tightness in his chest. He doesn’t even stir when Queenie settles herself beside him, taking one of his big, work-worn hands in hers and drawing him close. His cheeks are wet, two identical tracks rolling down his pale cheeks, smoky lashes damp when they brush his skin. Queenie wraps her slender arm around his surprisingly broad shoulders, prodding him to cuddle into her side. He presses his forehead into the place between her throat and shoulder, and although the tears are hot on her skin, Queenie doesn’t pull away. 

“Hey,” she whispers, leaning in close until her lips brush his hair, “What’s this?’

Percival shudders, shaking his head. His shields are down, Queenie can feel the tightness in his throat, the lump that refuses to be dislodged and let him speak. He swallows reflexively, as if trying to prove his point, but the phantom sensation never leaves. There’s panic, bubbling up from somewhere low in Percival’s gut, just a flicker of the hellfire it could become. Queenie clutches him closer, until his chest is pressed to her chest and his shoulder is resting against hers. His fingers tangle in the silken fabric of her nightie, rough callouses catching on the fine fabric but Queenie doesn’t care.   


“What do you need, doll? You want some water?”

She begins to card her fingers through his downy hair, free of the pomade he uses to corral it. It’s bone straight, as black as a raven’s wing and oh so soft. Her fingernails catch on Percival’s scalp and he shudders. 

_ I left them to die. _

Queenie feels like she’s been kicked in the gut. In that horrible moment her breath comes whooshing out of her and she can’t replace it, left gasping under the phantom weight of the guilt on his shoulders. It’s a bone deep sorrow, gets right into the marrow and festers. 

“Oh, Perce,  _ no _ .”

Percival shakes his head again, his grip tightening, fabric stretching when he pulls on it, like he’s trying to mesh their bodies together. His thoughts are  _ loud _ , eviscerating the decisions he’d made that night, the decisions he  _ should _ have made, the people he’d saved and the people he couldn’t. Queenie can taste his panic on her tongue, it’s a vile and sickly sweet thing, coating the back of the throat and making it difficult to breathe. She can feel the smoke in her lungs, can hear the terror in his voice when he calls out for his aurors. She can see smoke and flame, wizards’ flame, some terrible spell which refused to be doused or frozen. She can hear the building crumbling and groaning, threatening to come down on all of them. Upstairs, someone is screaming.    
  
Percival chose his Aurors over whoever it is upstairs. 

_ I left them to die _ . 

Queenie sucks in a breath, panting for a moment, mind reeling. She feels sick. Percival finally makes a sound, a broken sob which cracks his ribs and leaves a tear in his heart. He shudders again, body pitching into Queenie’s. She catches him, keeps him close.   
  
“You can’t save everyone,” Queenie finds herself whispering, voice strong even if she trembles, “You did everything you could.”   
  
_ But _ -  
  
“No buts, Percival Graves. There are four people who went home that night to their families because of you.”

Queenie takes his face in both her hands, stroking her thumbs over the salt and pepper sandpaper on his jaw and then up to stroke over his cheekbones. She wipes away the tears before bringing their foreheads together.   
  
“You’re allowed to grieve, baby, but please don’t destroy yourself.”

Percival nods, hiccuping. He dries his eyes on the back of his sleeve, taking in a few deep, shuddering breaths. When he’s finally calmed down, those coffee-dark eyes find Queenie’s and he offers her a shy smile.    
  
“Better?”   
  
“Better.”   
  
_ Thank you. I love you _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please tell me your thoughts!


End file.
